


Proxy

by Fudgyokra



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Affection Is Requited But Rhys Is Still Unconscious During This SO, And Actual Remorse, Angst, But Way Too Late, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, Jack Has Issues, Love/Hate, Lust, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Religious Imagery, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Possession, Possessive Behavior, Sad, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9616253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: While Rhys lay in paralytic sleep, Jack possessed.





	

The beauty of possession is owning just to own, doing just to do, and touching just to touch. If anyone in the universe knew the pleasures of owning, it was the king of Hyperion, a god in his own creation that succumbed to death like a star would. Even now that he lived in the wires of someone else’s brain he felt the sort of hunger that could only be sated by dominion, and so, while Rhys lay in paralytic sleep, Jack possessed.

Rhys was a friend. Really, he was. There wasn’t much that could tug at a dead man’s heartstrings, but the idea of breaking this particular boundary made even Handsome Jack feel a dull ache of guilt. Rhys would have wanted this consciously—oh, he’d never said so but Jack could always see it in his eyes: admiration, obsession, lust. Lust, or worse.

It was a sad thing about him, that he put so much faith in a heartless man like Jack. He might have done anything to get in his good graces, even if that meant giving himself away whole. In fact, anything short of dying might have been the recompense he’d give himself for letting Jack into his head and heart. Jack, for his part, wasn’t sure which of these things would be worse to break.

He moved Rhys’s robotic arm first to test the waters. It was lighter than it looked—lighter than flesh and blood—but strong. With hardly any pressure and even less control, this metal could break the smaller bones of the body. The ones in the neck were always the most appetizing to snap, but this wasn’t a night for violence. (That was untrue and he knew it; tonight was a night for violence of the worst kind.)

Jack moved the hand to the sliver of skin exposed by the t-shirt that rode up past Rhys’s hips, then he hummed, experimenting with the vocal chords of his prey. He swallowed and felt the muscles of his exposed throat move against the chilly night air.

He wondered whether or not Rhys held his body or his heart in higher esteem. Carefully, he lifted the shirt as high as it would go until it bunched behind the man’s back, and from there he utilized his organic hand. It felt like the rightest wrong there was to feel flesh against flesh, the pads of his fingers touching down on a taut abdomen, then moving to the spray of dark curls just above the waistband of his boxers. And then lower, lower, lower.

When Rhys’s even breathing hitched, it wasn’t within Jack’s control. Shit, was he awake? Jack waited patiently for any sign of movement but found none to come in the passing seconds. With more care than he allowed even himself, he began again, back and forth.

The strangest sensation was when he picked his head up without his brain telling him to, almost like running in a dream. It was then that he realized he’d been caught, and yet he could feel that Rhys’s human hand was still very much in his control. Not quite awake, then.

Burning with nerves, desire, shame, and barely-quenched satisfaction, Jack became the pilot again, lifting the weight of his upper body onto his elbows, then balancing on one to continue what he’d come alive to do.

A shudder went through Rhys’s body that Jack reveled in with an almost worshipping kind of fascination. He heard more than felt another short breath escape through parted lips, and this time Rhys was definitely waking up, because for a moment his fingers loosened their grip.

_Fuck._

Something in him wouldn’t let him leave without conquering. Would never let him leave without knowing the taste of victory, ill-won or not. He pulled the robot arm out from underneath him and let Rhys collapse onto his back in the bed, then maneuvered the metal hand to his trachea.

“Jack.” His name came out in two syllables, like a broken moan.

Halfway in a stupor, Rhys allowed Jack to guide more than control his free hand until he was too lost in sensation to bother stopping himself from finishing what Jack had begun. Even though he was losing control, Jack could still feel the way Rhys clenched his teeth and jerked his hips upward, ending with a warm splash across his stomach and a hot, shallow exhalation that turned upward at its tail until it was just barely a groan.

It wasn’t powerful, but Jack still saw stars. Past the layers of _wrongness_ he felt fulfilled, like how taking and devouring always made him feel. In his world, he deserved it. In this world, trapped within Rhys’s brain, he deserved to suffer for it. Damned if he didn’t, damned if he did, he thought, only to be shut down by the way Rhys sat up and moved his robotic hand from his throat to cover his mouth.

Something about the expression he wore cut Jack to the quick. He waited for anger to appear in Rhys’s features but received only silent acceptance, which was a million times worse than any caliber of anger ever could have been. Hatred and disdain he could handle, but volition like this felt like some monstrous rot was growing in his lungs. Despite this, despite everything, the knives of his teeth and the sharp cut of his mouth could not stop his facetious voice from slipping through the cracks. “Rise and shine, sweetheart,” he all but goaded, materializing in his day-to-day holographic self.

Rhys looked as guilty as Jack felt. “I’m, uh. I’m really sorry about that,” he said, regarding the other man seriously through sinfully-blown pupils.

Jack frowned as Rhys stood from the bed and tugged his shirt back down. “What for?” He kept his eyes trained on the blooming spot of wetness spreading through the white cotton of Rhys’s shirt.

“For you having to see that.” Though it came across genuinely, Jack could spot a false smile on just about anyone’s face. “I’m way too old for wet dreams,” he added, trying to joke his way past the obvious shame burning just beneath the surface of his now-dewy skin. “I didn’t say anything, did I? That would be pretty embarrassing.”

It felt like there was a crater in his chest. Rhys didn’t even know what had happened and Jack wasn’t sure whether it would be worse to tell him or to let the unsaid fester. “Uh, no, not that I heard.” He was no good at lying to Rhys; he could see the spark of recognition in his eyes.

“Please don’t think I’m gross,” Rhys said, forcing a laugh. “It’s something I never really got over, I guess. I know it looks pretty bad to be trapped in the head of someone who looks at you like that.”

Jack couldn’t even make his own mouth work, much less figure out how he’d ever let himself control Rhys’s. In lieu of a verbal answer he shrugged, a gesture at which Rhys pursed his lips.

“I’ve managed not to since you’ve been in my head. I don’t know why I suddenly…” he trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s okay,” Jack said, trying to sound casual.

Without a response, Rhys ducked into the bathroom and locked himself in. Even that couldn’t stop Jack from existing in his brain, but the older man tried his hardest to block out the synapses that he could see telling Rhys to feel such gnawing guilt.

His apparition remained in the bedroom, floating just above the sheets. He thought that some god out there had already damned him in the past, but he realized right then that he hadn’t truly known the pain of damnation until tonight. If this sin of his could be forgiven, he might have had a reason to be religious. He might have had a reason to want to be. But that’s all it boiled down to, he guessed: the looming sting of _might have been_.


End file.
